


To Take Hell and Hold It

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Colonel Shepard, Australian Digger [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Australia, Australian Slang, Big Damn Heroes, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Apparently the Crucible hasn’t fired yet and they need a Space Yank to pull the trigger. Our job, as always, will be to kick down the gates of hell, hold the damned things open, and let the Yanks come in and say they won the war.”</p><p>Colonel Regan Shepard leads the Commonwealth forces in the Battle of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Take Hell and Hold It

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for violence, death and fantastic racism. Though this is Part 2 of ‘Colonel Shepard, Australian Digger’, it’s the direct prequel to ‘Don’t Mess With A Digger’.

“Well, shit.”

            How else could Colonel Regan Shepard of the 2nd/14th Light Horse Regiment (Queensland Mounted Infantry) out of the Enoggera Barracks on the Brisbane Coast respond to the news that she was the highest-ranking member of the Commonwealth Division of the Alliance military remaining? Bad enough all forces had been hauled from all stages of the Reaper War for this final push to cover Ashley Williams and her team’s getting the Crucible into place. Now she had some cockatoo in her face going on about how he, Commander Somethingorratherus, would command her forces (how easy it was to fall into the mindset of a supreme commander) for the last push to take the stage for arming.

            “No.” Regan kept her response short and not so sweet. “You don’t know jackshit about how the Commonwealth Division works. If I’m in charge, I call the shots, not some cockatoo.”

            The turian got into her face and jabbed a finger at her chest. “I rank you-“

            “Actually, Colonels rank Commanders in the Commonwealth Division,” Kaidan Alenko, a Major from the Canadian forces, explained, swooping in like some maple-flavoured Superman to save the day with diplomacy and a velvet-gravel voice.

            Around them the exhausted soldiers enjoyed the lull in battle to apply medi-gel, stimulants and a last swig of whiskey to settle their nerves. Not exactly protocol on the last, but most of these soldiers had been fighting in arenas from Sydney to Toronto to Auckland to finally London. The epicentre of hell was here, the Reapers too scared shitless to use Australia because the Diggers had made it too hot to handle and even giant space-prawns couldn’t scan through old filled-in mines and other underground bunkers. It was now or never, the last battle of a six-month Ragnarok, and as always the crucial element would be the ANZACs.

            “We don’t have time to get into a pissing match over rank!” the cockatoo argued. On another day, Regan would have agreed with him, but if she was going to lead people to hell then she’d be at the forefront like some fucking Aussie archangel.

            “Then listen to the expert. We have to take what used to be the Palace of Westminster, following narrow twisted pathways of wrecked metal and rubble, and pay for every inch in blood,” Kaidan answered calmly. “The ANZACs, led by Colonel Shepard and her second Major Parata, are specialists when it comes to that shit. The Canadians will sweep up behind them. What’s your company, Commander Arturus?”

            “Palaven Four.”

            “Then do what you do best and lay suppression fire on the Brutes and Cannibals.”

            The turian nodded tightly, regarding Shepard with a glare. “As you wish…?”

            “Major Kaidan Alenko, what’s left of Canadian High Command.”

            “Thanks. When we get out of this, I’ll put a commendation in for you with Admiral Hackett.” The turian regarded Regan dourly again before turning to face his men, exhorting them to kick space-prawn arse. Regan listened for a moment, admittedly impressed with his rhetoric, before Major Ngaire Parata punched her on the shoulder.

            “Showtime, Bushfire,” the Maori soldier said with a grin. “You’d better make some kind of speech before we go in there.”

            Ngaire had been the one at her back since the Reapers decimated Sydney, the Major having been there for a joint military exercise with a battalion of New Zealand’s finest. She’d been the one to give Regan the callsign of ‘Bushfire’ both for her red-orange hair and the ‘kill it with fire’ strategy that took down a Reaper in the Blue Mountains back in Australia. In return, Regan called Ngaire ‘Jumper’ after the Maori woman leapt onto a Brute’s back and killed it with her military-issue knife. They both called Kaidan, who joined them in the Toronto arena, ‘Boy Scout’ because somehow he managed to maintain a sense of honour and basic human decency in these most desperate of times.

            Regan responded with an upraised middle finger, earning a chuckle from Ngaire, before looking towards what was left of the Anzac-Canadian forces. “I’m not gonna sugar-coat the orders we just got,” she announced bluntly. “We’re to take the stage for the final run to the Crucible and hold it so Williams can get shit finished. With General Oates’ death, I’m in charge. Don’t worry, I’m as traumatised at the news as the rest of you are.”

            General Oates wasn’t the sort of strategic genius that Hackett and Anderson were, but she’d managed mostly by having Regan and Ngaire (and later Kaidan) interpreting her orders creatively. Her specialty had been requisition and coordination, arenas Regan admittedly sucked in, and if they survived long enough to rebuild, her loss would be keenly felt. But they didn’t have time to mourn because it was now or never.

            “So in other words, we need to prove the old military adage that if we need to take hell, send in the Aussies to take it and the Kiwis to hold it true. The Canadians will do the polite thing, as they always do, and clean up behind us. If we find some Poms, I’m sure we’ll make them useful.”

            Some snickers broke out at that comment. It was a Commonwealth tradition to take the piss out of each other, but most especially the British. Regan had never met a UK officer who didn’t need a boot up the arse for good reason, though David Anderson was the only one she really respected.

            “We made Australia and New Zealand too hot for our giant space-prawn friends to hold! At the Blue Mountains, we put one of those fuckers on the barbie! They came to London for the final showdown because everything in Australia down to the insects had a good shot at fucking killing them! So let’s show these bastards why you do _not_ fuck with the Commonwealth!”

            Probably not the greatest speech, though Regan thought the line about putting the Reapers on the barbie was inspired, but it got the soldiers worked up and ready to storm hell itself. She took a deep breath and a final swig of flat water before putting on her helmet, cranking up the volume of the music she fought to, to block out the sensory overload of battle, and led them forward towards the Palace of Westminster.

            Somewhat appropriately, DragonForce’s ‘Through the Fire and Flames’ was playing as they hit the front lines of the Brutes and Cannibals, creatures that had been krogans and batarians before becoming huskified. Regan fired up her biotics and tore off one bandolier of grenades she wore, triggering them with multiple mass effect fields before flinging it at the tight cluster of Brutes that held the centre of the first line. Ten grenades went off, fire-flowers that dropped shrapnel petals, and cut down two of the four Brutes. Ngaire’s SMG made short work of the third while Kaidan Lifted the last and drove it headfirst into a tangle of Cannibals, sky-blue light casting odd shadows over the wreckage of wires and twisted flesh.

            Through the fire and flames Regan charged, going forward because that was what Australians did when all hell was to break loose, trusting to her mates to watch her back as she took on the enemies she could. When she ran out of bullets from her assault rifle, she pulled out the SMG and used that until there was no more ammo, then fell back to her trusty sniper rifle as the assembled fleets of the galaxy carried the battle overhead. The cacophony of carnage and conflict was visual only, heavy metal music her soundtrack to the personal war movie that her existence had turned into, and she became the conductor of destruction for a band of soldiers hell-bent on righteous revenge.

            Inch by inch, blood red and blue covered the ground as the Commonwealth and Palaven Four troops advanced, mingled with stranger hues from the Reapers’ cannon fodder. Inch by inch Regan advanced, knowing that she lost friends with every step, knowing that something might finish her any moment but going forward because to flinch would be to fail. Inch by inch, calling upon the legends of Gallipoli, Tobruk and the Kokoda Trail, the Anzacs entered hell and bent it to their will.

            They reached the ruined Palace of Westminster and reinforced a failing company of Poms led by Major Coates, who looked almost grateful to see Regan and friends, and then held against seemingly endless waves of Cannibals and Banshees until Ashley Williams came in, guns blazing and two mates – one a turian and the other only the gods fucking knew what it was – at her back. Admiral Anderson was on her coattails and between them, they secured the site, cleaning up what the Commonwealth troops had begun.

            Regan pulled off her helmet and inhaled the air, smelling of smoke and stranger fumes, like it was the fresh salty breeze off the Brisbane Coast. When she turned around, she saw that she’d lost a full third of her soldiers, and wiped at the hot tears which threatened to spill. It was all or nothing this bitter day of last judgment. Everything… or annihilation.

            Williams was conferencing with Anderson, everyone ignoring the Anzacs because they weren’t actively saving the world’s arses at the moment, and the troop transports were dropping krogans, asari and turians. The whatthefuck who followed Williams in approached the Commonwealth troops, looking almost impressed; his four eyes blinked in unison as slit nostrils flared.

            “The fuck are you?” Regan said, probably the same phrase used during a human’s first contact with a cockatoo and therefore triggering the First Contact War, as she rummaged around for a strawberry-flavoured protein bar.

            “I am a Prothean,” the alien responded calmly.

            “Uh huh,” Regan said sceptically. After seeing what he did to a Brute, she was just going to smile and nod.

            “You are doubtful. I do not blame you.” The Prothean almost smiled. “I thought very few humans knew how to make proper war, but you – you killed a Reaper almost on your own. Even Ashley needed a giant thresher maw and the quarian fleet to match that.”

            “The space-prawns were idiotic enough to attack Australia during summer,” Regan answered grimly, finding her canteen and washing out the taste of bile from her mouth. “Tinder-dry, the trees are, and one little spark can cause an inferno.”

            “Indeed.” The Prothean sounded approving. “It will soon be over, one way or the other, but from one warrior to another, I salute you and yours.”

            Regan found herself saluting the green-skinned alien and received one in return before he rejoined Williams, who gave him a lover’s smile and included him in the conversation. The Australian shook her head slowly before feeling the greater biotic field of Kaidan brush against her own meagre one.

            “Major Coates will be joining us for the final push,” he told her quietly.

            “He’s welcome to join the fun,” she replied, raking greasy orange-blonde hair from her eyes.

            “You’re too kind,” Coates said as he replaced heat-sinks in his assault rifle.

            Regan found the strawberry-flavoured protein bar and devoured it before checking her equipment. She had one more bandolier of grenades, four heat-sinks, and her omni-tool left. Her amp was still running good, her few wounds weren’t anything to worry about, and medi-gel slapped on her bruised shoulder made it usable.

            “One more push and it will be over,” Kaidan said with a heavy sigh, rubbing his prematurely grey hair. He was a fine-looking man even ten years since their one-night stand in Vancouver and Regan wondered for a moment if he was still a good kisser. “What will you do when it’s over, Bushfire?”

            “Be dead or pissed as a fart,” she admitted candidly. “You, Boy Scout?”

            “Probably the same,” he agreed with a soft laugh. “Though, I’d like it if you got drunk with me.”

            “Only if you kiss me for luck,” Regan found herself responding. Fuck the rules about fraternisation because they were already in hell.

            A heartbeat later Kaidan was kissing her like they could die any moment (true), stealing the breath from her lungs (good way to die if she went right now) and proving that yes, he was still a good kisser (thank the gods).

            “If I have to enter hell, then I will do so at your side,” he murmured after they stopped because breathing was necessary.

            “Who’s in charge around here?” Admiral Anderson was asking.

            “That’ll be me, sir,” Regan said, reluctantly letting go of Kaidan. She was going to look him up when the war was done.

            “Regan Shepard? Well, I’ll be damned.” Anderson had tried talking her into N-School but Special Forces really wasn’t Regan’s style. She was Aussie born and bred, preferring to stay within her nation’s military and probably dying there unless she got exploded by a giant space-prawn today.

            “Takes more than a giant space-prawn to kill me,” Regan told him with a grin. “Hell, we barbequed one in the Blue Mountains.”

            “That was you?” Anderson shook his head in amazement. “I should have figured you’d be too damn stubborn to die.”

            “Same goes for you, sir.” Regan finished her canteen of water and refilled it from a Mako’s water-tank. “Orders?”

            “We’re going to be the spearhead for Williams and team to reach the Crucible,” Anderson promptly replied. “I won’t lie, Shepard – this may very well be ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ stuff.”

            “Just so long as it’s for a better fucking reason than Gallipoli,” Regan countered. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

            Anderson quickly explained that the Crucible wasn’t firing and because Prothean technology responded to Williams like she was Prothean – and her boyfriend Javik was a real one – they needed to get in and fire the damn thing.

            Regan sighed and nodded. “Alright, that makes sense.”

            “Good. We head out in ten.”

            What was left of the Commonwealth forces gathered at Regan’s gesture. “This is apparently the final ‘final’ push of the campaign,” she announced to the soldiers. “Apparently the Crucible hasn’t fired yet and they need a Space Yank to pull the trigger. Our job, as always, will be to kick down the gates of hell, hold the damned things open, and let the Yanks come in and say they won the war.”

            “I love how parochialism still festers in the human psyche,” Regan heard Williams mutter in the background.

            “At least she isn’t making reference to your ancestry,” the turian, whose name was Galahrus or something, pointed out helpfully.

            “I guess so,” Williams admitted with a sigh.

            Regan didn’t give a fuck about Williams’ ancestry. She cared more about the fact that thousands – _millions_ – had died and more still would because they needed the first human Spectre in place.

            “’But ours is not to reason why, ours is to do and die’, to paraphrase Tennyson. Once again we will take hell and hold it because when it comes to the crunch, that’s what the Anzacs do. I only hope that unlike Gallipoli or the Charge of the Light Brigade, this isn’t going to be some Pommy fuck-up that leaves most of us dead. We’re the ones who made Australia and New Zealand too hot to handle, so we – and the Canadians and the Brits – are going to be the ones who make the giant space-prawns wish they’d never crawled out of a thousand miles from the arse-end of nowhere. So, shall the Commonwealth show the rest of the Alliance – and the galaxy – how it’s done?”

            “Fuckin’ oath we will!” yelled one of the Aussie soldiers as everyone else cheered and for a moment, Regan let her heart swell with pride. The Yanks might have the bigger guns but when it came down to it, the Commonwealth troops had more guts.

            She put on her helmet and activated the breathing filters in case they wound up in space. “Last one to the Reapers has to buy the first shout!” she yelled before turning to lead her soldiers into the jaws of red bloody hell.


End file.
